


At Journey's End (What Was Not Meant For Us Is All Returned)

by badgerling



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Hallucinations, Fix-It, Gen, Post-Mother's Mercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerling/pseuds/badgerling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying is not just going gently into that good night, not when you're a Stark, not when there's a bigger war to fight, not when you're Jon Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Journey's End (What Was Not Meant For Us Is All Returned)

**Author's Note:**

> Characters and setting belong to George RR Martin. No profit made, no infringement intended.

He only feels the cold as he slumps forward, cold like the blood in his veins is freezing already, like the blood pooling between his skin and his clothes has turned to ice. It's winter. It's possible, but Jon can't concentrate well enough to figure out if it's the weather or if he's dying or already dead or something else entirely. He can only barely hear the sounds around him, the things he should be hearing, the sounds that people on the Wall should be making in general, he would hope the sound of someone else noticing what had happened, but everything is fading, distant, unremarkable.

Until the burning starts. Jon feels fire racing through his blood, startling, bright, and sharp all at once, and for a moment, he thinks of the fact that cold can burn as well as heat. But he can't scream, can't force air into lungs that have holes in them, and his body won't respond when he tries to fight, tries to roll away from the fire that seems to be burning through him.

Panic is beginning to cloud his vision, beginning to turn everything into a slight shade of red, but then...

"Promise me, Ned," and Jon is suddenly no longer at the wall. He's in a large round room, a bed in the center, and the furs he's still wearing are suddenly unbearably hot. The change is fast and sudden and it takes the breath that Jon doesn’t even have out of him. It's summer, which is ridiculous, but it feels like summer in a kingdom that's never seen winter, and he wants to peel the furs off to find some kind of relief, but he can't make his arms move, all he can do is turn toward the voice.

"Promise me, Ned." The same voice, feminine, weak, tired, and fearful, and the room comes into sharp focus then. A woman in white, the bed and her dress covered in blood, and his father, kneeling at her side, shaking his head, but she's breathing hard, tears on her face, and Jon knows then what this is. His aunt, Lyanna Stark, covered in blood, is this what the Targaryens did to her? "Ned, please, they'll kill him. You know Robert will, you know it," and there's a sudden burst of strength in the woman's - Lyanna's - voice as she reaches out and grabs Jon's father's hands.

"Promise me, Ned," and Jon's not sure if she's repeating the words or if Jon is just hearing them over and over and over again. The room smells like blood, like blood and roses and heat, and the warmth in the room is heavy, and Jon is certain that the entire scene should make him nauseous. But he can't move, he can only watch as his aunt pleads for something, for a promise from her brother, and when Ned Stark finally nods, when he finally gives that promise, Jon sees Lyanna smile, faint and weak but with relief, but her breathing is shallow, and whatever strength she had that was keeping her alive, it fades.

She opens her hand, and rose petals fall to the floor.

The room is silent then. Jon can tell that his father is crying, his shoulders shaking with sobs that Jon can't hear, and he's not sure how long they stood there, how long Ned Stark mourned his sister while the...ghost? of his bastard son stood behind him. But the room remains silent until a loud wail slashes through the room. Jon's not sure it's real because his father doesn't react. But others heard it, forms rushing into the room. A small figure carrying a sword, dotted with blood and gore, and maids and ladies in waiting and other courtly people that Jon should know their titles and occupations.

But his focus is on the source of the cry, on the woman who lifts that small squirming bundle off the bed, wrapping it in a blanket, and she tries to quiet the child, but it's angry or hungry or lonely, Jon's not sure, and for a moment he feels a pang, a pang for the sons he can't have, won't have, not anymore.

The smaller man with the sword steps forward, touching his father's shoulder, trying to get his attention, and it takes a moment, another long one with no sound but the baby.

"My lord," the smaller man says, and Jon knows now that it's Howland Reed, one of the North's bannermen, because he's heard this story before, rumors and fairy tales told by the smallfolk because his father never talked about this moment. But there was never a baby. Lyanna Stark died because of Rhaegar Targaryen, but there was never a baby. "The child," Reed continues and that was what it took as Ned jerks back, his hand dropping Lyanna's, and Jon can see his father's eyes taking notice of the child finally.

"He comes with us," and Ned's voice is soft, softer than Jon's ever heard it. "As far...," Ned takes a breath, and for a second his shoulders shake, but he steels himself, his spine straightening. "As far as anyone can know, he's mine."

And just as suddenly as he arrived in the too warm room that smelled of blood, Jon is back in the cold, the ice of the Wall pressing against his back, and he still can't breathe, he still feels like he's burning, but like he’s freezing at the same time, the sensations of ice and fire slicing through him at the same time. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the feeling.

"And let them grow up close as brothers." And Jon recognizes his father's voice, and he wants to turn his head to look for the source of the words, but Jon can't move. Not until he feels a hand on his wrist, and when he turns, he's in Winterfell, and Robb's in front of him, just as the last time Jon had seen him.

"Robb," Jon says, the name coming out in a rush of air as he smiles, but Robb doesn't return the smile, and he just looks sad, and there's a flash, a moment, the creature standing in front of him is wearing his brother's clothes, stained with blood, Grey Wind's head on his shoulders, and it's monstrous, and Jon wants to shout at the sight, but he doesn't have the air for that. Then as quickly as it appeared, it's gone, and it's just Robb in front of him with snowflakes melting in his hair.

"I'm sorry, brother," and Jon wants to ask why, what he's apologizing for, but Robb just shakes his head, his hand still wrapped around Jon's wrist, and he leads him through the gates of Winterfell. Jon isn't sure what he expects. His brother is dead, but this is Winterfell, he's had this dream before, so he isn't that surprised when Robb leads him down into the crypts. The air is cold here, and it smells stale, old, dead. There is the faint undercurrent of blood, but Jon doesn't know which one of them it comes from.

Both brothers, both brutally murdered, and Jon can feel something like a hysterical giggle rising up in his throat, but the sound gets cut off by a fit of coughing. Robb stops in front of the last statue in the crypts, the one of Lyanna, no wolf at her side, and as he looks up at her, Jon can still hear her voice trying to beg a promise out of his father.

"Why are we here, brother?" But Robb doesn't reply, his hand only tightens at Jon’s wrist, his fingers feel like blades of ice against Jon's skin. Robb tugs him deeper, past the empty crypts, the ones that should be home to bones and statues for Ned Stark, for his children, for an entire bloodline that had died too fast.

"You don't belong here," Robb says, and Jon can tell without even looking that his brother's blue eyes are sad.

"You brought me here," Jon says, unable to stop the laugh this time, but even that sounds, even talking ends in a coughing fit.

"There's no place for you here," Robb stays, moving forward now, closer, and Jon thinks, almost distantly, that his brother's cold is stealing Jon's warmth.

"Your mother made that very clear," Jon says and instantly regrets it. It's an old argument, one Jon hated and still hates to have with Robb, to remind his brother that Robb's own mother wanted nothing more than for Jon to just go. "I went as far away as I could."

"I should have made you stay," and even in the darkness of the crypts, Jon knows his brother is standing as close as possible. "You should have died with me, at my side."

"Maybe. I think we both would have preferred not to die, though." Jon reached out, his hands finding Robb's shoulders. He wants to hug the brother he hadn't seen in years, but he stops short of that. "Why did you bring me here?"

It’s Robb that moves closer, or maybe the room shifted, Jon can no longer tell if they are moving or if the crypts are playing tricks on them. Distantly, Jon hears laughing, and he turns sharply to see faint shapes, children, running and laughing as they slash at each other with practice swords, moving between the shadows cast by the torches. Better times, Jon thinks with a faint smile as he turns to remind his brother of the times they played together.

But his brother is standing close, too close, and when Jon opens his mouth to speak, Robb’s hand comes up to cup the side of Jon’s face, turning his head slightly. Robb leans forward, his lips brushing against Jon’s ear, a kiss, almost, and a breath of cold air against his skin as Robb whispers, “As close as brothers, but not brothers, my prince,” and those words make Jon blink. Once. Hard. He’s shaking his head as he twists his head away from his brother.

“Bastard brothers don’t get to be princes, my king,” Jon says, using the title he never got to use but wanted to so desperately, on those dark nights before his vows and Frey weddings.

“Promise me, Ned.” Lyanna again, and Jon’s gaze immediately goes to Lyanna’s statue in the dark of the crypts. When he looks back at his brother, Robb is smiling. Sadly, faintly, and then, the room twists, and Jon’s stomach goes with it as it he falls to his knees, heaving into the snow. He wants to take a deep breath, but every bit of air is met with more coughing.

Robb is gone when Jon finally presses his hands against his knees and lifts his body up a little. It’s snowing, really snowing, the flakes falling through the branches of the godswood. He's not cold, there's still that heat, that burning cold that he can't really seem to shake. He stares at the heart tree, barely focusing on the red tears flowing from it's weirwood eyes.

"You shouldn't be here, brother." Another voice, faint and distant, but Jon recognizes it. Like all of his brothers, of course, he recognizes it. Jon was just used to hearing it shouting as he played with the others. Bran. "You need to go, Jon. You're not supposed to be here."

"What is this, Bran?" Jon doubts he'll get answers, no one else has given him any kind of answer, only mysterious babies and brothers leading him to the dead. The scenery around them changes, briefly, he's in another castle, another room with another woman and another baby and a man with silver-blond hair.

"The dragon must have three heads," the man says, and Jon doesn't know if he's talking to him or the baby or the woman. It doesn't matter, and Jon still doesn't get an answer as the scene changes again, and he's back in Winterfell. He's still on his knees, and he can feel the snow melting under him, the cold water seeping into his pants.

"You need to wake up, Jon." Jon glances around, hoping to see Bran somewhere behind him, but he's still alone in the godswood, and he still has no answers, and the heat that had never left him from when he watched his father and his aunt was getting worse. Oppressively worst.

"I'm not asleep," he says, his words defensive. He wants to explain that he's dead or close enough, that he had felt two knives slip into his body and the life seep out while the cold slipped in, but he suddenly doesn't have the air for that either, not at first and not when his body was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit. the world around him flickers then, images jumping and changing. The room with the bed of blood, the man with the silver-blond hair, dragons, wolves, fire, ice, the Wall, the Others, his father on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, his brother at the wedding where he died.

"Wake up, Jon." The swirl of images, of places he'd never been, of events he'd never seen, of people he had lost without saying goodbye, it all stops, and for a moment, the godswood of Winterfell is silent and still.

Then it's burning, flames devouring everything, and Jon can't move again, not until the fire reaches him, and with a shout he opens eyes he wasn't even aware he had closed.

The sky is dark above him, smoke rising toward the stars, blocking out the moon, and Jon thinks that this should hurt. Because he is on a pyre, he can feel the wood beneath him, can feel the grip of Longclaw under his fingers, and he can feel the heat of the flames as it burns away the leather of his boots. His brothers in black hadn't done quite the job they thought they had when they stabbed him, but he remembers then. Of the dead and the dying that he had seen in his...dream?

Jon isn't sure.

The flames reach his legs and arms, burning through the clothing easy, and the second fire touches skin, Jon screams. He had been breathing in smoke for too long, so the sound doesn't carry beyond the brothers in black immediately around the pyre, and when Jon pulls his legs up, gets shaky muscles to cooperate long enough to let him stand, he can see them through the smoke and fire, all of them, all of them taking a step back.

The pyre collapses under the weight with a snap of burning logs and burnt clothing. Jon ends up standing on solid ground, the fire swelling for a moment as Jon feels and smells the ends of his hair catch fire and begin to burn. Through the haze of smoke and flame, Jon can see the Red Priestess on the walkway above the courtyard, and Jon wonders if this is her doing. But as he takes a step forward, her eyes widen and she steps back.

No. This was not Melisandre's doing.

Jon Snow walks off his own funeral pyre, and the men who killed him step back again, pushing against each other in their need to get away from this miracle of fire and ice and rebirth.

Because the sword in Jon's hands is burning too. Because the Red Priestess has fallen to her knees.

Because there's nothing more terrifying than a miracle.


End file.
